


Whumptober 2019

by Humblefun



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, I will tag characters as I go, Minor Character Death, References to Depression, Renee is only in chapter 6 so far
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-11-10 19:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humblefun/pseuds/Humblefun
Summary: Collection of the prompts I fill for Whumptober this year.





	1. Shaky Hands

Dick knows better than most kids that parents aren’t the invincible monoliths that they seem to be. He’d watched his parents fall - down, down, down - until they were just a mass of broken limbs and blood on the circus floor. He’d seen Bruce bruised and battered and an inch from death more times than he can count. 

That doesn’t keep his heart from stopping when Bruce gets shot giving a speech. It doesn’t keep his hands from shaking as he presses them to the wound, whispering please, please, _ please _as cops surround them. It doesn’t stop him from trying to fight at the hands pulling him away to assess the damage. 

His knowledge does nothing but sit heavy at the forefront and remind him that Bruce _ can _die. That Bruce is just as fragile as they were. That he can lose someone else. 

Dick knows better than most. 


	2. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce isn't having a good time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, bit late with day 2, sorry folks. This is a semi continuation of yesterday's chapter. I might continue this story line for the prompt tomorrow.

“The shot was through and through, Mr. Wayne. Nothing vital was hit, blood loss was minimal, and all in all you’ve got an easy recovery ahead of you. You’re going to stay off your feet for a minimum of two weeks, but take it easy for four months. That’s about how long it’s going to take you to heal fully.” 

Bruce sees Dick look at him from the corner of his eye and smiles his ‘Brucie’ smile to the doctor. He nods along with what he’s saying, assures him he’ll follow up with his primary care provider, and adapts his patrol routes in the back of his head. 

He’ll give himself two days tops. 

The doctor leaves the room, none the wiser to Bruce’s thoughts.

Dick clears his throat and Bruce looks over at him. He wants to laugh and sigh at the same time. He thought the worst of it would come from Alfred. 

“I’m an adult you know.” 

Dick scoffs. Bruce doesn’t know whether to be offended or not. 

“Your blood was all over my  _ hands, _ ” Dick shoots back. 

Bruce doesn’t exactly have an answer for that. What looks like anger on Dick’s face is really just fear. Bruce shifts in the hospital bed and beckons him over. Dick uncurls himself from the chair and lays down next to him. Bruce drops a kiss to the top of his head. 

“I’m fine,” he assures. 

Dick shakes his head. “You didn’t have kevlar on this time. You weren’t Batman this time. You were Bruce and if the bullet had moved just slightly in any other direction, it could have been so much worse.”

Bruce smooths Dick’s hair back and looks up at the ceiling. Dick’s right. He could have died. He takes a deep breath. 

“Two weeks, but no longer than that.” 

He can see the protest that Dick is ready to give, but Bruce shakes his head. He’s not budging on this. Dick closes his mouth. He gets out of the hospital bed and stalks out of the room. Bruce runs a hand over his face and closes his eyes. 

…

Two weeks pass and he forces himself out of bed and down to the cave. He can feel the deep ache in his body, and knows why the doctor tacked minimum onto the time frame. He suits up, Dick a worried shadow, and they head out into the night. 

It takes approximately an hour for things to go wrong. 

…

_ “Hey, B?” _

Bruce taps the side of the cowl, next to the lenses, and takes a scan of the wall in front of him. Various residue readings pop into his view. He doesn't look too closely, the scans will sync to the computer, he's here to sweep the building and consider the information back at the cave.

“Yes, Robin?”

They’re in an abandoned building on the east side of Gotham. Bane had been spotted a few days after he’d gotten shot. He hadn’t been able to do much more than flag the location and come back to it later. Now it’s empty and there’s very little to indicate what’d been going on and where Bane had moved to. 

_ “Something...it doesn’t feel right, you know?” _

Dick is right next door, checking for any signs there. It’s a long shot, but that one had been condemned around the same time and it never hurts to be thorough. He heads towards the steps. 

“What do you mean?” 

A thought flits through his head about traps and he’s tempted to have Dick scout this building with him. He doesn’t want him on his own if something goes wrong. He decides against it after a second. It'd been hard enough to convince Dick that he really was fine for patrol. Calling him back would only make him worry more. 

_ “I dunno. I mean it’s only been nine days right? But the place, at least this one, looks like it hasn’t been touched, but on top of that - Bane isn’t stupid. He knows how to keep out of sight. And this place is optimal for his shtick so why clear out only a few days after setting up?”  _

Bruce climbs the stairs and listens while Dick talks. His unease grows. Two nights of missed patrol was all it took for rumors to start that Batman wasn’t around. Could Bane have placed himself intentionally, knowing he’d be seen on surveillance to test the theory? Bruce shakes his head. If that were the case, after he didn’t show up, the operation would have -  _ should  _ have - continued on. So where was everything? 

Where was Bane? 

_ “B?” _

“Just thinking, you make a good point. Do me a favor, head to the car." After a quick second, "I’ll meet you there in a minute. We’ll sweep the buildings remotely.”

Dick sighs over the comms. 

_ “Sure thing,”  _ he mutters.  _ “Do you have any theories?” _

Bruce makes it to the second floor. He looks around the whole room. No residue, no bloodstains, nothing. He frowns and steps forward. The floorboard creaks under his feet and depresses as he puts his weight on it.

“No, I-”

It’d depressed as he put his weight on it. 

_ “Did you find something?”  _

He doesn’t move. 

“Have you cleared the other building yet?”

_ “Yeah, I’m across the street on the roof. I’d figure I’d wait and we could go to the car together. It’s a long way by grapple and I’m not going to get blamed for letting you pull your stitches. I like my after patrol hot chocolate, than you very much.”  _ A pause.  _ “Why do you ask?” _

Bruce breathes out a sigh of relief. He steps back with one foot and waits until the very last second to move the foot that’s putting weight on the floorboard. 

He dives back just as the bomb explodes.


	3. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is having a rough time. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, I struggled with this one my guy. 
> 
> Also yes, I did hint at Selina there.

The glow of the computer screen is harsh against Bruce’s eyes. He closes them for a minute and pinches his nose. His shoulders slump, he breathes in deeply, and then his head is dropping to his chin. ‘Sleep’ lasts for a solid thirty seconds before he jerks his head back up, looks at the computer screen, and then winces because of the brightness. If he stays up any longer he’s going to start seeing things. He closes out of the files he has open and stands up. 

He walks over to the changing area and shakes his head when he sees Dick sleeping on one of the benches. He pauses to brush Dick’s hair back from his forehead and that’s when the alert sounds. He closes his eyes. He could change, carry Dick upstairs, and go to bed. He could and he wants to, but instead he pulls the cowl over his head and walks back to the computer.

…

The police are already at the warehouse when he lands on the roof. Gordon is in front of a mass of police cars with a megaphone to his mouth, shouting about the building being surrounded. Bruce turns away from the edge and heads towards the skylight. He crouches down. 

Scarecrow is frantically packing away whatever lab he’d built up. His henchmen are standing with guns pointed towards every entrance, except the roof. After all the time he’s been doing this, they still don’t check the roof. He stands, pushing through the dizziness, and drops through the skylight. 

It takes a moment for the henchmen to react. He uses it to throw down a handful of smoke pellets and shoot a grapple to the landing. The gunfire starts a second later. They’re still shooting upwards when he drops down to the main floor. He slams two of them together. They slump to the ground. He kicks someone’s legs out from beneath them. He hits the concrete with a thud.

Bullets are flying in all directions now. He throws down another set of smoke bombs and backs out of the fight. He focuses his attention on Scarecrow. Bruce had seen him bolt when he’d first dropped in. He’d been more concerned with getting some of the guns down. Now he spots a flutter of movement on the other side of the warehouse and slips into the shadows to pursue. 

He picks up his pace to try and overtake Scarecrow and then he feels something sharp stab into the back of his neck. He turns around and Scarecrow is standing behind him. He swings at him, but Scarecrow just steps out of his way and sticks his foot out as Bruce stumbles forward and falls to the ground. He tries to push himself up, but Scarecrow puts a foot on his back and keeps Bruce down with pitiful ease. The lack of sleep is coming back to haunt him. The toxin is affecting him faster than it would be if he was more alert. He can feel his heart rate picking up and it’s getting harder to breathe. He can’t even push Scarecrow off his back. 

“Do you like the new formula Batman?” 

Scarecrow’s voice is everywhere and Bruce shuts his eyes against it. 

“I’ve made it injectable. It acts so much faster this way. You’re going to experience delirium within the next few minutes. After that your condition will continue until your heart exhausts itself and you die. I’ll let the Commissioner and his friends find you.” 

The pressure moves off of his back and Scarecrow walks away. He turns over with great effort, his chest heaving and gropes for the emergency beacon on his belt. He doesn’t know if he presses it, because then he’s in a damp well, a swarm of bats descending upon him. He lets out a shout and crosses his arms in front of his face. They move around him, screeching and scratching and biting. Then it’s silent. He drops his arms and stands in the middle of crime alley. He hears the gunshots, the screaming, and he runs forward. Dick is crouching beside his body, alone and begging for him to wake up.

“I’m here!” he tries. “I’m here!”

The words aren’t coming out. They’re caught in his throat. He tries to inhale and he can’t. He’s underwater and his cape is too heavy. His fingers can’t unclasp it and he keeps sinking and everything gets darker, darker, black…

…

Bruce sits up in the hospital bed with a gasp. His immediate instinct is to start ripping out wires, but then he catches sight of the familiar cave walls and relaxes into the bed. The IV next to him drips quietly and his heart monitor has slowed its beeping. Evidently, he’d hit the emergency beacon. Alfred or Leslie probably synthesized an antidote. He closes his eyes and just breathes for a minute. He’s fine, he’s okay.

He opens his eyes when he hears the curtain pull back. Dick peeks his head in and his eyes go wide when they meet Bruce’s. He smiles and rushes over to the bed, leaning over it and hugging Bruce as best he can. 

“You scared us,” he mumbles. 

Bruce places a hand on the back on Dick’s head.

“I know, I’m sorry."

He holds Dick close and tries not to think about what he'd seen when he was under.

How long was I out?”

“About twelve hours, Alfred let me stay home from school.” 

Bruce nods absently. Twelve hours. He was going to have to analyse the compound. Direct contact with the blood stream probably helps with potency, but the onset speed was still worrying.

“Who responded?” 

Dick looks up. Bruce narrows his eyes. 

“Dick-” 

“What? Was Alfred supposed to do it? Besides, it wasn’t just me. I picked up some help along the way.” 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. Dick just smiles in response. Bruce sighs. That expression never means anything good. 

“Who-” 

“Curiosity killed the cat, Bruce.” 

Bruce groans.


	4. Human Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stakeout gone wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I don't care if Slade is out of character. I'm five days behind. Also, pardon the oc. Also can we all agree that Deathstroke is a way less menacing name than Slade? Deathstroke sounds...well...anyway it sounds like a special move on Mortal Kombat.

Dick sits cross legged on the roof across from the Gotham Gazette. The occasional car horn from the traffic far below is the only sound that breaks the silence. Wind whispers through his hair. He loves nights like these. The rare moments of calm and quiet and the slight chill that brings hints of the winter to come; it’s perfect. It’s also the best time for a low-risk stakeout.

A week ago, a Gazette reporter - Lauren Davis, had written an expos é on  a pesticide factory just on the outskirts of Gotham. A factory worker had come to her with evidence of corruption and criminal activity. She’d published it, not naming the worker, but he’d still ended up dead. Now, she’s getting death threats and the factory is empty.

Bruce is examining the factory and for the third night Dick is tasked with making sure none of the threats against Lauren are carried out. He raises his binoculars to his eyes and adjusts the view so he can see into the office. The window is open and she’s sitting at her desk, typing. She’d seemed unphased when Batman and Robin showed up in her office a few days earlier and said they’d be keeping her safe. She’d just been worried about getting the rest of the story out to the public, making sure the crime was known and met with justice.

He takes his gaze away and looks up at the Gazette’s roof. He figures it’d be the most likely place for someone to try and come through. There’s been no attempts thus far. He looks over the roof again, catches a flash of orange. He pauses, adjusts the lense, and sees a glint of metal. 

His eyes grow wide. He throws himself to the side. A bullet lodges itself into the place he’d just been sitting. He scrambles behind an A/C unit and brings his fingers to his ear.

“Uh, B? We’ve got trouble.”

_ “What kind of trouble?”  _

He risks a glance around the side of the unit. Another bullet hits right next to his foot. He pulls himself back. He has a feeling that one missed on purpose. He pulls out some smoke pellets. 

“Oh you know, the kind with guns that’s shooting at me.” 

He throws them out, enough to create smoke for the whole roof and ducks out the other side. He hopes whoever is shooting can’t see through the smoke from their vantage point.

_ “I’m on my way.” _

Dick doesn’t reply. He runs and throws himself off the building. No bullets come at him and he can only assume the shooter is heading into the building through the roof. He releases a grapple and swings into Lauren’s office. He lands in a somersault and stands with a cheerful wave.

“Hi, we have to go,  _ now _ .” 

She’s already standing by the time the words leave his mouth. He’d find the shock on her face funny if it wasn’t for her door opening and Deathstroke standing in the doorway.

Of course.

He steps in front of her. The gun goes off. Pain, white and hot, sears into his shoulder. Deathstroke raises the gun for another shot, but Dick is already stumbling backwards, into Lauren, and out the window.

She screams and Dick turns around and grabs her hand while he uses the other to shoot another grappling hook. It connects, and the tug jolts his injured arm. He grits his teeth against it. She’s panicking, and Dick can feel her fingers slipping. He looks up and sees Deathstroke at the window. 

Oh. He’s so dead. 

He hits a button on the side of the grapple gun that lets the line out and sends them towards the ground below. More screaming, but the shot misses. If he can slow them up, then they can land on the ground safely. But he doesn’t know if he can hold onto Lauren’s hand that long and now Deathstroke is aiming at the spot where the hook has dug into the wall. 

No. 

He fires. A chunk of concrete is blown away, and with it, Dick’s line. Now they’re in freefall. Deathstroke disappears from the window. Lauren’s screams fade away and Dick can’t breathe. They’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to -

Something solid slams into them. Dick latches on instinctively and Bruce uses his free hand to catch Lauren. They all drop onto a nearby roof. Lauren staggers to her feet and then falls back down and retches. Bruce asks if she’s okay, waits for her quiet ‘yeah,’ before moving to him. 

He grits his teeth when hands find his shoulder. 

“Can you walk?” 

He nods. 

Bruce nods back and then looks back at Lauren. 

“Ms. Davis, we need to get to the street. We’re not out of danger yet.”


	5. Gun Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has always blamed himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, because Thomas and Martha have been shot enough.

They leave the theater late because of him, because he likes the credits music.

They leave the theater late because of him, and they have to walk further to catch a cab. 

They leave the theater late because of him, and they walk through an alley and into a man with a gun.

Bang.

Bang. 

They die.

Because of him.


	6. Dragged Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood, broken bones, and panic.

Dick’s scream is drowned out by the crowds’. His parents get smaller and smaller until they stop with a thud that Dick will remember for the rest of his life. He turns and slides down the ladder so fast the palms of his hands go raw. He runs for the center of the ring. He dodges past people trying to stop him, no longer seeing faces, just needing to get to-

He stops beside their bodies. 

He drops to his knees, into the growing puddle of their blood. Someone is screaming, _keening._ The sound is raw and horrid and Dick doesn’t realize it’s him until someone tries to drag him away from them. He fists his hands into his father’s costume and holds on for dear life. 

He can’t let go. He can’t let go. He kicks out, but his foot doesn’t connect. Gentle hands pry his fists away. He twists and cries and tries to go back to them, but someone is carrying him away, and their grip is strong. They get smaller and smaller until he can’t see them and then he’s seated outside the tent. 

A blanket is put around his shoulders. Someone is kneeling in front of him to talk but he can’t see them. He can’t hear anything but thud, thud, _thud_. Bones broken and bodies deformed. He doesn’t realize he’s not breathing until there are hands on his cheeks that he pulls away from with a gasp. 

The rush of oxygen fills him and leaves just as quickly. They’re dead. They’re gone. The hands are back, they’re firm and there’s a voice, warm and steady urging Dick to focus, to look at _her._ Who is her? Dick doesn’t want to focus. He needs to go back to the tent. He needs to see them because it can’t be real. This can’t be real. But the voice is insistent even if it sounds far away and underwater.

It tells him to focus on the hands, focus on her hands. Dick doesn’t understand. Her? The command comes again, firmer this time, closer. Dick listens and tries to focus on the hands against the skin of his face. They’re warm and solid and - his mother’s face flashes behind his eyes. The voice doesn’t let up. It gets even closer. Focus. Focus. He tries again. 

Warm and solid and gently thumbing away tears. _Focus._ This time it’s firm and sharp and right in front of him. Dick jolts. His hands raise up on instinct and try to wrap around the wrists of the hands on his face. 

“There you go,” the voice murmurs. “That’s it. Keep that up.”

One of the hands gently shakes off his grip. It leaves his face and takes his hand and lays it against his stomach. 

“Dick, I need you to try something with me okay? We’re going to breathe in and I need you to breathe in so deep you move our hands.”

He does what he’s told and then he’s told to do it again and again and again until his senses start filtering back in and his heart isn’t trying to escape his chest. Both hands are on his cheeks again.

“Dick, I need you to open your eyes.”

Open his eyes? When had he closed them?

He winces at the plethora of red and blue lights and blinks rapidly against them. The hands come up and act as blinders. He looks at the police officer in front of him; dark hair, tan skin, and eyes so sad and sympathetic. His vision goes misty again. 

“Hey, there. It’s…” she pauses and Dick hears the unspoken _okay_. 

It’s absolutely not okay. She knows that. She gives him a tight smile.

“Dick, I’m Renee. We’re going to go to the police station okay? I’m going to get you new clothes.”

He shakes his head. 

“No-” His voice comes out as a croak. “I have to stay. I have to. They’re in there, I have to-” 

He doesn’t realize that he’s stood up until she’s gently sitting him back down. She’s crouched down to be eye level with him. 

“I know. I know, but it’s cold out, and there’s nothing more we can do here, okay? We’ll go to the police station, we’ll get you new clothes and something warm to drink.” 

She says the words with a gentle firmness that Dick can’t even begin to argue against. She stands and holds out a hand. 

He takes it. 


	7. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick is going through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is why you don't project on to characters babes. Also Bruce is the best dad in this because I said so that's why. This is entirely me projecting onto Dick so sorry for that.   
Content warnings for depression.

Dick doesn’t answer when he hears the knock on the door. It’s probably just Alfred, reminding him about dinner, again. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the bed since he got home six hours hours ago. He’s still in his uniform. He hasn’t even kicked his shoes off. He’s just laying on his side, staring out the window, and feeling empty. It’s been like this for a few weeks now and it only seems to be getting worse.

His phone lays by his head where the short conversation he’d had with Bruce is still open. 

_ D - I’m staying in tonight _

_ B - You okay? _

_ D - Fine. _

He’d taken a long time to send his last response. He hadn’t been sure what to put that would ease Bruce’s nerves. It’s the second time he’s begged off patrol this week. Fourth time this month.

The knock comes again and he squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to get up and get it, but he can’t. Everything inside him weighs him down. The door creaks open. 

“Dick?”

The sound of Bruce’s voice makes him sigh. 

“I said I was fine, you don’t have to skip patrol because of me,” he says. Even speaking feels like a momentous effort.

He feels the mattress dip as Bruce sits down.

“You’ve been off for the past couple of weeks. I’m worried about you.”

Dick feels pressure behind his eyes. He swallows and keeps staring straight ahead. This is what he’d wanted, right? Someone to ask if he was okay? Someone to notice? But now that he has it, he wants to back away and hide. He doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to unload on Bruce and add to his problems. He shrugs.

Bruce soothes a hand up his back and tears immediately spring forward. He closes his eyes against them and hides his face in the blankets. A few slip down his cheeks and he ignores the painful tightness in his throat. Bruce doesn’t let up on the contact.

“Dickie.”

Bruce’s voice is gentle and calm, but Dick can hear the earnestness too, the fear. Dick hates himself for putting that there.

“I feel bad.” 

He turns his head to the side so Bruce can hear him.

“I feel bad and I-at the same time it’s like I don’t feel anything? I feel empty and not good enough and stupid and-“ 

He cuts himself off and presses his hands to his eyes. He hates this. Explaining it just makes it worse. It opens up that cavernous feeling in his chest. Makes him feel like he’s going to be swallowed into the despair. His shoulders shake as he starts to cry.

“I don’t want to feel this way anymore. It’s so  _ bad _ , Bruce. Some days I feel like I can’t move. I feel so hollow and horrible and-“ He sucks in a shuddering breath. “I feel like...I’m not doing good enough? And distant? Like I’m here, but I’m also not? I don’t know, I don’t know. I just know it feels wrong and it  _ hurts. _ ”

He looks up at Bruce. His face is drawn up in sympathy and he pulls Dick close, but doesn’t say anything. Just holds him tight. Dick cries harder.

“I don’t even want to talk to my friends. Wally keeps threatening to call you and stage an intervention cause I haven’t talked to him in a month and I’ve been trying to dodge Babs at school, and I’m just so  _ tired _ . I wanna sleep all the time cause it’s the only time I don’t feel like this.”

He holds on tightly to Bruce’s and lets out his pain. Bruce murmurs to him the whole time, quiet ‘I’ve got you’s’ and ‘breathe, Dickie, breathes.’ It takes a long time for him to stop crying. Even longer for him to breathe at a normal pace again. Bruce is there the whole time, solid and surrounding, but he’s still not enough. 

Under the momentary relief Dick can still feel it. It’s like he’s got winged sneakers on and he’s being dragged towards Tartarus. Except Tartarus is whatever’s wrong with his brain and the sneakers are his general well-being.

Bruce pulls him back and holds his face in his hands.

“I know how hard it was for you to do that.” He presses a kiss to Dick’s forehead. “So, thank you for letting me in.”

Dick just nods, pressing into the contact. He’s exhausted now. Rung out. Bruce thumbs the tears from under his eyes.

“You can always talk to me.  _ Always. _ ” A pause. “But I also want you to talk to someone else. Someone professional who can help you make sense of the thoughts and cope with them and maybe even stop thinking them. Because I can’t do that. I can tell you to stop isolating yourself-“ 

That’s said so pointedly that Dick smiles faintly. 

“And I can offer my presence and the ability to listen and stay with you when you need to talk or cry or anything, but I’m not licensed and I want you to get help that lasts.”

“M’okay with that,” he murmurs. “They’ve gotta know about downstairs though.”

Bruce nods. 

“You’re right, and that limits our options, but we’re going to find someone you want to talk to, that you feel comfortable with and trust, okay?” 

“Okay,” he says and pushes his way back into Bruce’s arms. “I knew...I knew you wouldn’t be upset, but I didn’t want-I didn’t want you to have to deal with more stuff on top of everything else. I didn’t want my problems on you. I just wanted-I thought I could handle it. But it’s so bad, Bruce. I feel so bad.”

Bruce’s arms tighten around him.

“We’re gonna get help. I promise. It’ll get better.” 

He sits his chin on Dick’s head and just keeps him close. Dick listens to the steady rhythm of Bruce’s heart and slowly falls asleep.


	8. Stab Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gets stabbed, Bruce is worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet my dudes. I'm going to write a few longer ones, but I'm really just trying to play catch up at the moment, so please bear with me.

“You’ve got to stop staring at me like I’m already dead,” Dick says. He gives Bruce a grin that Bruce does not return because he is not amused. 

“You. Were. Stabbed.” 

Dick’s cheerful facade shadows for a split second before he smiles again. “Yeah, but I’m alive so it’s fine. Also, it’s not like you haven’t been stabbed and shot and hurt eight million times before. Also also, I’m  _ fine _ , stop worrying. I’m okay.” 

The last two words are said softly and Dick looks at Bruce with earnest eyes and Bruce let’s some of the tension drain out of him. He smooths Dick’s hair back from his forehead and Dick leans into the touch.

“You’re going to listen to the bed rest requirements.”

Dick rolls his eyes. 

“Says the pot to the kettle.”


	9. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian is going through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of this fic could just be *insert character* is going through it.   
CW for depression

“Get up, we’re going outside.” 

Damian cracks open one eye. Grayson’s sunny smile stares down at him and he closes his eye again. He breathes out through his nose. 

“I’d rather stay here,” he replies. 

He’d rather stop existing, but he will settle for laying on the couch for now. He’s not sure if he can move anyway. 

He practically feels Grayson’s smile dissipate. If he were to open his eyes again, he’d see concern and the slightest bit of guilt, the shadows that tended to pass over Grayson’s eyes when he was upset.

“You’ve been ‘here’ for the past three days,” Grayson says.

Damian does not react. 

Yes, he has been here for three days. He’s been laying here, sleeping or looking up at the ceiling. There is nothing else he can do. The emptiness has shackled him to the worn leather and keeps him there. 

He hurts. It’s an ache that seems to emanate from his heart, but that he can’t make go away. It doesn’t matter if he’s out on patrol with his Father, or drawing, or any of the things he usually enjoys. He aches and is empty in varying intervals. 

The couch dips near his feet and Damian should have known that ignoring wouldn’t work, but his stomach still sinks at the prospect of talking. 

“Richard, please.”

Damian’s use of the first name coupled with the plantivness in his voice at least pauses his brother, but no one in this family is easily deterred, least of all Richard Grayson. Damian resigns himself to his fate as fingers flick gently at his feet. He shifts them away and opens his eyes in a weak glare.

The expression he expects is there, teasing, but dimmed, and Damian cuts his gaze away. He doesn’t want concern. He just wants to be alone until this stops. 

“Come on, the sunshine will do you some good, and there’s leaves all over the yard.” 

Damian scoffs. 

“I see no correlation between the lawn service’s incompetence and your attempts to get me to move.”

Out of the corner of his eye a smile grows, just slightly. 

“Well, they’re actually not supposed to be here till tomorrow, and in any case, we’ll get to make leaf piles,” a pause. “Listen, just a few minutes okay? If you really don’t want to be out there, then you can come back inside, but…” He trails off. 

Damian takes in a deep breath. The effort it takes just to sit up is frightening. He sits there for a moment, hands gripping the end of the couch before pushing himself upwards. He walks past Grayson, not sparing his face a glance and heads to the hallway. 

He stops in front of the french doors leading out to the backyard. It’s beautiful out. Something he’d want to sit and draw if he wasn’t so...lost. That thought alone makes him want to turn around and go back to his self imposed exile, but Grayson chooses that time to come up beside him. A jacket is pushed into his hand. It’s quite a bit bigger than the windbreaker he keeps over his desk chair this time of year, so he knows Grayson stopped at the hall closet to grab whatever he saw first, probably afraid that if he took the time to grab the correct jacket, Damian would change his mind. 

He puts the jacket on, but just stares through the glass, unmoving. 

“Damian-”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice above a whisper. 

Outside a leaf brushes against the glass as it falls to the paving stones. He follows it down. His eyes grow wet. 

Grayson kneels down to his height, turns him with gentle hands so they’re facing each other. His concern is palpable and Damian presses his nails into his palms to keep from crying.

“Damian, I-” he trails off. The spot between his eyebrows in bunched in thought. “There’s not always a good explanation.. But I-you’re not alone. Not with the emptiness or the hurt or the enormity of it all, you’re not. I promise you that.”

The words strike something in him.

“How do you…”

A sad and tired smile.

“Oh,” he says in response. 

Then he’s being pulled forward into Grayson’s arms. This hug isn’t crushing, as they so often are. It’s gentle, bracing,  _ stabilizing _ and Damian feels, for the first time in three days, like the pain might recede, like the emptiness might be filled.


End file.
